


Sinking Sand

by The_Winter_Straw



Series: Where Gods Do Fear to Tread [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscarriage, POV Second Person, Pregnancy, Reader-Insert, Sexual References, crude sexual humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: Anger isn't the only emotion that can take over a life.Second in a part of eight responses to the "9 Months" challenge by crackleviolet on Lunaescence Archives.





	1. How it Happened

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go for part two! This was almost entirely written during 2014 (I think) and then I finally got off my butt and wrote the last chapter in 2018. Of the original four, consensus seems to be that this is the best of the lot? 
> 
> This challenge had ONE happy pregnancy prompt (dubbed "normal pregnancy" in the requirements). The rest are all tragedies in some form or fashion--until we get to the bonuses, which have some more unrepentant happy endings. I wanted to surprise everyone while I was writing them, but since my original response is done, I will go ahead and tell you that this response is for the miscarriage pregnancy. It is a fantasy miscarriage, but still might be upsetting to some.

You couldn’t quite believe your ears the first time Bruce suggested it. There he stood, wearing nothing but one of his typical button-down shirts and fidgeting with his fingers while he waited for your answer. There you sat, stretched out across the bed and already in your comfiest pajamas with a magazine clutched in your hands. Surely, _surely_ you had heard Bruce wrong. He was still standing there, though, and still looking as pale and shaky as Bruce ever got around you those days.

“You want to try _what_?” you finally asked, several minutes of staring later. This was not the politest way to ask, perhaps. Surely it would have been ruder to ask if he’d really meant it, though. Your eyes narrowed slightly as it occurred to you that this could be another one of Tony’s life model decoys that he’d been pumping out lately. How Bruce responded would wind up being proof (or not) of that.

“I think–I think we should sleep together.”

“We always sleep together,” you said blankly. If you had ever seen Bruce blush before, it had never been quite like this. He wasn’t much of a blusher to begin with, but now there was a distinct tomato-tinge to his cheeks. He took a deep breath.

“I mean have sex, [Name]. I think we should have sex.”

Again, you stared, dumbstruck. Now you _knew_ something wasn’t right. Slowly, you set your magazine down on your bedside table without taking your eyes off of your husband standing in front of you. His own eyes kept their focus on your face. When no “April Fools!” popped out of his paling lips, you crawled across the bed to the end to press your palm to his forehead.

“You don’t _feel_ sick.”

Bruce scoffed and brushed your hand away. That was more like him, but not necessarily proof Tony hadn’t replaced him with a sexbot as some sort of “favor” to you. “Of course I’m not sick. I can’t get sick, remember?”

“Distinctly,” you answered. “Which is what makes this weird. Turn around and let me make sure it doesn’t say _Stark Industries_ across your neck.”

“I’m not a replica, [Name].” At least your confusion had the side effect of amusing Bruce, rather than hurting his feelings. Despite his faint, throaty chuckle at your expense, he did as asked and turned around. You narrowed your eyes at the bare pink skin peeking out from underneath his dark, curly hair.

“Tony would know I’d look there,” you pointed out. “His logo could be anywhere on your body.”

“Which you would _see_ , if we ever get to the point of having sex, since I understand most people enjoy doing that naked.” Bruce lowered himself onto the bed beside you. He had a point, of course, but that didn’t cause your suspicion to entirely subside. Looking so fondly at you that it made your insides squirm, he took your hands. “[Name],” he said gently, “I would like to sleep with you. If you’re amiable to the idea, of course.”

Clearing your throat was really the only thing you were capable of for the next couple of minutes. This whole sort of proposal was so _Bruce_ : so sweet and considerate and careful. The only thing was, it was a proposal for _sex_ , which was absolutely never something that Bruce had ever suggested the two of you take up. Not that the idea wasn't tempting at all, but his sweet, considerate carefulness would only hurt worse if the real one walked in the door while let you’d let your guard down.

“Where,” you asked finally as you settled into a more comfortable position, “is this coming from? Bruce, we’ve been married nearly a _year_ ,” the word turned into a laugh toward the end, and you had to lift a hand to your mouth to suppress it. There was nothing inherently funny about a sexless marriage, especially yours. But you had known it would be sexless from the beginning. It hadn’t mattered to you, so long as you could be with Bruce. Not that that meant it was easy all the time. You had always figured the difficulty applied only to you, though. Apparently not.

Bruce waited for you to clear your throat and stop giggling to scoot closer to you on the mattress. He looked very serious. A little embarrassed, you looked down, and only stopped doing so when you felt his dry lips against your cheek. This caused you to laugh again, but it was only from being flustered, not because you were startled by your husband’s suggestion you pursue carnal relations.

“I really want to try this, [Name],” he said, shifting his fingers so that they were between yours. “If you don’t want to…”

“No!” you were quick to say. Perhaps a little _too_ quick, but his only reaction was a tiny smile. “No, of course I do. If you want to. I don’t want you to feel like you have to because of me.” That was your main concern, really: That you had pressured Bruce into this situation. The two of you had spats just like normal spouses did, obviously–but never about sex. He couldn’t help who he was. Even if he could, who he was was who you loved.

He remained quiet for a few minutes, just holding your hand and looking at it from every angle. Surely in doing so, he could feel how hard your pulse hammered in the space between your thumb and forefinger. As usual, _his_ pulse was calm, the same steady beat you fell asleep to every single night, save for those he had hero duty or a reason to run far from home. Just when you thought you were going to crack from the strain of your husband offering to sleep with you, he looked up with a smile.

“You didn’t pressure me, [Name]. I promise. I’ve been wanting to try for quite some time now. Tonight just…seemed like the right time.”

“How romantic,” you teased, though in all actuality it was. Bruce had never been the most suave of men. Just knowing that he had been thinking about making love to you without saying anything for so long was enough to cause a faint pleasant tingle to enter your cheeks. Yes, the thought was most definitely nice. Nice, but unnecessary. “What about the problem with your heart rate?”

Bruce could be as romantic as he wanted, but he couldn’t change facts. He couldn’t have a nice long talk with the Hulk and ask him politely to keep to himself while the two of you were in bed. As far as you knew, he couldn’t talk to the Hulk at all, and anything he had to say likely wouldn’t be put very politely. To your surprise–you had really thought your question would put an end to the night’s conversation–Bruce shrugged.

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” His smile turned suddenly devilish, something that happened so rarely that your stomach dropped like you’d missed a step coming down the stairs. “I’ve been practicing.”

It took you a couple of seconds to get the gist of his statement. Once you had cottoned on, all you could in response to that particular pronouncement was roll your eyes and say again, “Oh, how romantic,” with less sincerity than before. Still it was at least a _little_ romantic, even now. You wondered how Bruce had managed it–and then decided that you really didn’t want to know.

“I _guess_ since the house is still standing, that means it worked,” you said, unable once more to withstand the urge to chuckle. Bruce’s cheeks had turned a fairly bright pink, too, but he continued to look pleased with himself all the same. Whether or not he was a life model decoy, it was becoming clear to you that he was spending way too much time with Tony Stark. “Doing it with another human is a bit different, though,” you pointed out. “What if the big guy isn’t game for that?”

Bruce let go of your hand to begin playing with your hair. Damn him; he knew that drove you wild. So, of course, most of the time he avoided doing it. Your question hadn’t done anything to make him less confident–which led you to believe that he was absolutely serious about this. “In that case,” he answered as he pushed himself closer to you on the bed, “I would immediately pull out. If you’ll pardon the language.”

You groaned. This was both the absolute worst romantic moment of your life and the best. If this all turned out to be a ploy by Bruce’s friend, you were going to _hang_ Tony in the morning–and you’d bet that Pepper and Natasha would help. For now, it was difficult to concentrate on things like the murder of your husband’s best friend. Said husband had pulled the collar of your pajama shirt back a little, and was busy kissing your exposed shoulder. At last, you cracked.

“Wish you’d have given me some warning,” you griped. “Could have at least bought some fancy underwear for the occasion.”

Bruce laughed, lips still against your skin. He took them away long enough to assure you, “What’s the point? If this goes as planned, the underwear doesn’t stay on very long.” Then his expression softened into something much more familiar. “You look lovely, [Name].”

He was lying, obviously. You didn’t care. How could you? You could care about things in the morning. That night, you could occupy yourself only by being able to kiss Bruce just as hard as you had wanted to from the very moment you had met.


	2. Finding Out

It seemed your life was doomed to play itself out as one series of embarrassments after another. First, you embarrassed yourself assuming your husband of nearly a year was joking about wanting to pursue an actual sexual relationship with you. Second, you had spent the last week completely oblivious to the fact that your period was supposed to have started three weeks ago; you’d been complaining about breast soreness for days; and had gone through not one, not two, but _three_ bags of chocolate-covered popcorn while Bruce had been away with Tony. Thirdly, when _Bruce_ noticed these symptoms and pointed them out to you, you had gone and made an appointment with your gynecologist…without telling Bruce.

His suggestion hadn’t exactly been along the lines of _"[Name], I think you’re pregnant."_ If he really believed that, you were sure he’d have been a lot more worried. You had promised to make a doctor’s appointment, laughed off his concern, and Bruce–being caught up in some new project of Tony’s–swallowed your bald-faced attempts at pretending you were fine and went on with his day. You, on the other hand, had been a quivering mess of nerves ever since. You had even put a stop to the frequent love-making sessions. _That_ he had noticed, but he believed you when you told him that you were just feeling under the weather.

You hated lying to Bruce. That made you feel sicker even than the thought of being pregnant. Cajole yourself as you might with the rationalization that you probably _were_ just sick, your feelings changed not at all. But why shouldn’t they? Bruce _wanted_ a family. He had told you as much before. Unfortunately, he’d also said he could never have one. Not with the Hulk around. Not after what happened to his cousin. Not after what he’d done to Natasha during _their_ brief relationship.

One of the other women in the waiting threw you a questioning look, and only then did you realize you had been fidgeting and sighing along with your thoughts. You shot her a sheepish smile you’d learned from Bruce. Rather than return your smile, she looked back at her magazine. Hopefully she was there to look into better news than you were.

A buzzing in your purse caused you to jump. Lord, you were acting like a criminal. Even after you figured out the noise had been nothing more than your phone, you shook. Seeing that the message wasn’t from Pepper or Natasha didn’t help matters. Actually, who the message _was_ from made matters worse.

 _‘Home early. Where are you?’_ read the text with Bruce’s name in bold above it. You gulped and looked around, as though you were going to spot him peeking out from behind one of the potted plants in the waiting room. This was stupid. He had no idea where you were. Only one of Bruce’s friends was psychic, and you hadn’t been around her recently enough for her to know what you had been plotting. Even if Wanda _had_ somehow picked up your thoughts from the several blocks between your apartment and the Avengers Tower, she couldn’t have known what you were going to the doctor _for_. You had been doing a fine job of mentally squelching that down, in your opinion. Or perhaps your husband was just too distracted to keep up his usual focus on your mood swings.

Wincing, you answered, _‘On errands. Be home soon.’_

 _‘How long?’_ came the immediate reply.

_‘Probably an hour.’_

_‘I’ll start dinner. See you soon. xoxox’_

God, what were you doing? Bruce should have been there with you. He wasn’t a violent man; you weren’t afraid of him hurting you, even if he did go green over the revelation that you might be pregnant with his child. What you _were_ afraid of was his fear. If you were pregnant, it was just a baby. Nothing to be afraid of. But he would worry anyway, for you and the baby and everyone else. That was just the way he dealt with things. You didn't need that right then. You were worried enough without Bruce's worries riding along.

“Mrs. Banner?” someone called from the front of the room. You looked up to see a nurse waiting for you to get up from your chair. Scurrying over to the door, you did your best to forget Bruce’s probable reaction–at least until you found out for sure there was a reason for your anxiety. Perhaps there was a perfectly natural reason beyond all these symptoms. Just because you had been sleeping with your husband regularly for the past few weeks did _not_ mean that you were pregnant. For all you knew, you were merely getting along in years. All women stopped having periods eventually.

You did your best to smile and nod and answer truthfully as the nurse ran through the usual pre-appointment routine. If she realized how distant you were from your present situation, she didn’t say anything after you’d explained your (physical) problems to her other than, “the doctor will be into see you shortly.” You wouldn’t say that twenty minutes was shortly, but it did give you plenty of time to continue wondering what in the world you were going to say to Bruce when you got home. Obviously, you would have to tell him the truth. This “errand” of yours was taking far longer than usual.

That, of course, was exactly when Dr. Warner entered the room. “Mrs. Banner, it’s good to see you," she said as she stepped over to her stool. "Not time for your annual, I don’t think? What seems to be the problem?”

You took a deep breath and launched into your explanation. The idea that you were having cravings or doing things like skipping periods had seemed ridiculous when coming out of your husband’s mouth, but now that you were here and they were coming out of _yours_ , they seemed downright sinister. By the time you finished with your list, your knuckles were latched white around the paper-covered bed you were sitting on, and you could _feel_ how much paler you were than when you had started.

Dr. Warner, however, looked completely normal. In fact, all she did when you finished this speech was turn back to the computer that the nurse had been using earlier, then turn again to you and say, “I have to admit I’m a bit surprised. Last time you were in, you said that you and your husband both were not sexually active.”

You understood immediately what she was getting at. “It’s Bruce," you said quickly. "I didn’t…sleep with someone else. We _weren’t_ sexually active up until a few weeks ago.”

Her eyebrows lifted. And why shouldn’t they? It wasn’t like your surname of Banner left anyone in any doubt as to which Bruce Banner you were married to. Thankfully, your gynecologist was a professional, and any fear that she might press how you had managed to become sexually active with someone so “volatile” seemed foolish when she smoothly went on:

“And this decision was sudden?”

“Sort of. Yes,” you added at her look. Bruce thinking about it without bringing it up for a few months didn’t count as planned, you supposed.

“So sudden that you did not have access to birth control?”

You colored right up to your hairline before you shook your head. “We’d talked about our sexual histories before,” mostly during your earlier relationship, when you were more willing to pressure Bruce for something he never gave into, “so we knew we were both safe, and we’re married, so…”

She nodded and made another note on the computer screen. “Are the two of you trying to get pregnant?”

“No!” you burst out, and had to laugh at how your vehemence made her blink. “No, believe me. Bruce and I are both a little past our prime. I guess the idea that we could get pregnant just never occurred to us.” At all, ever. Because the whole sex thing had been happening pretty often since you’d discovered it was possible without being ripped apart from the inside out.

“Well, then I think there’s your answer,” she said. “You’re experiencing multiple pregnancy symptoms, including breast tenderness, late period, and cravings.”

This was what you had expected her to tell you. Otherwise, why make the appointment? Still your mind raced as you tried to think of any reason why such symptoms would be happening that did not involved a tiny person growing inside you, and finally landed on, “I don’t have any morning sickness.”

“Not all women do. But it sounds to me like pregnancy is a possibility, at least. Men don’t have the same sort of biological clock as women do, and you haven’t reached menopause yet. If you and your husband have been actively pursuing a sex life lately and neither of you have worried about protection, I'd say a pregnancy downright _likely_.”

“But…” you trailed away, fingers tightening around your kneecaps.

“We can take a urine test, if you’d like,” the doctor said, checking through several screens on her computer before returning her attention to you. “We could also take some blood tests. Those results will take a few days to get back to you, but if the pregnancy is recent, they'll be more accurate. There could be chance that I’m wrong. I don’t think you’re very far along quite yet if you _are_ pregnant–but I do believe you are.”

She was the doctor here. Bruce wasn’t that kind of doctor, and even he was, he couldn’t _will_ the possibility away. Mutely, you nodded. Maybe, just _maybe_ she was wrong. You would still have to confess to this trip and the chance of the pregnancy to Bruce that night over dinner, but then at least there would be some hope a nurse would call next week and dispel the notion and what was sure to be a very miserable week following the announcement.

“Good.” After giving your wrist a reassuring squeeze, she got up to open the door. “I’ll get those labs ordered for you,” she said as you followed on stiff legs. “Once that’s done, just make sure to make a follow up appointment so we can do the ultrasound if the results come back positive. If they don’t, you can cancel.”

You nodded vaguely until she handed over a paper to give to the lab technicians down the hall. You didn’t make it to the lab right away, unfortunately. No sooner had Dr. Warner disappeared into another patient’s room than did your stomach give a sudden swooping motion. Oh, God. Thank goodness the bathroom was so close. You darted in, and immediately began to vomit into the waiting toilet. Was it morning sickness at last? Please no. For now, you would allow yourself to believe it was merely the thought of the stricken husband you would finding waiting for you back home.


	3. How You Told Him

A long subway ride home to the house did wonders to clear your head. Your stomach was empty, but Bruce was waiting at home with dinner. You had left several samples at the doctor’s office, and even though you’d _have_ to tell Bruce where you’d been all afternoon, there was still the chance that this was all some ridiculous mistake, a misunderstanding of your symptoms that you'd be laughing off together in a week. Bruce wasn’t going to kick you out. He’d probably just be relieved that you’d gone to the doctor for your numerous problems, and that would be that.

But he didn’t _look_ very relieved when you first opened the front door. Bruce sat in the living room, eyes glued on the blank television until he heard the door swing open as you stepped inside. Even as he leaped to his feet, he continued to rub frantically at his palms. “[Name],” he said with obvious worry. “Are you all right?”

You frowned in the middle of hanging your jacket up on the peg by the door. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“I couldn’t get ahold of you. You wouldn’t answer my texts, and I called, but you didn’t pick up.”

Blinking, you dug around in your purse until you found your phone. Sure enough, the screen was covered in little messages alerting you that your husband had tried to contact you just as much as he claimed. At a loss as to how to explain what you had been doing instead of putting an end to his frantic pacing, you looked up wordlessly–which Bruce took as a cue to barrel right on:

“I didn’t know what happened. I thought–I thought maybe _Ross_ or– _or_ someone had found you, and I wouldn’t know where to go to find you. If something had happened to you–”

Apparently the prospect was too much for him to continue thinking about. Unfortunate, since something _had_ happened to you, though it was definitely your own fault and not any long since-promoted army general’s. Poor Bruce. Years had passed since his last mishap with any army or law-enforcement unit, due to trumped up charges or otherwise, and still he feared for the safety of his tiny family. Bless him. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a hug. At last his nervous twitching stopped.

“[Name]?” he said again, uncertainly. For a long moment, you just nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck.

“Oh, Bruce,” you said a few seconds later, “I’m so sorry. I’m fine. I was just a little distracted.”

“By your errands?” He peered around and only then noticed you hadn’t brought anything home with you–except, perhaps, his unborn child. Not that he would have been able to notice that, unless he’d recently been developing more superpowers working in Tony’s lab. “What did you pick up?”

You took a deep breath, eyes sliding shut as you did. When you opened them again, Bruce looked no less on edge. “I think,” you said slowly, “you should sit down for this.”

He paled, but trusted you enough to head back to the living room. You waited for him to collapse on the couch before selecting your spot right next to him. If you told Bruce, you wanted the two of you to go through this together–even if it turned out next week that this was all for naught and neither of you had to worry about the consequences of bringing a child into the world. For now, it wasn’t exactly something you could ignore. You weren’t a fan of pretending things weren’t a problem and hoping they’d go away on their own.

“I…” You swallowed, then tried again: “I didn’t go on errands this afternoon.”

“You didn’t?” Sure enough, Bruce looked hurt that you had lied to him. Or perhaps you were just projecting. Now wasn’t the time to discuss your dishonesty. That could be taken up later, after the worse news was delivered.

You shook your head. “No. I went to the doctor.”

_That_ shot him straight from hurt to fear. “Are you okay?”

_Okay_ wasn’t the word you would use. “Well, I’m not sick, probably,” you said carefully. When he continued to stare at you like his little green friend was starting to feel a threat coming on, you picked up his hand and began to run your thumb across the top of his knuckles. “Remember last week? When I complained about my boobs in bed?”

“Distinctly.” Yes, Bruce really was in a mood. Not even a flicker of a smile at the memory, no indication that he was at all distracted by the mention of your breasts. You wondered if Pepper ever had this problem with _her_ husband. Most likely, no. Lucky Pepper.

“Well, that wasn’t the only problem. I was also eating a lot, and my period was late, so…I went to the doctor. Like you suggested.”

“When did I suggest that?”

“You were running out the door on your way to work,” you said with a wave of your hand. “The point is, I didn’t just go to the doctor. I went to the _gynecologist_.”

Bruce had grown very, very still. His eyes slid off to the side and away from you. “And?” he asked, but it was clear by how stiff his hand was in yours that he already knew where you were going with this speech. You wished he wouldn't make you say it. You swallowed again, squeezing his hand, then:

“She thinks I’m pregnant, Bruce,” you said, voice so hoarse you could barely hear it yourself.

And then? Nothing. Silence. You could hear the whirring of the dishwasher back in the kitchen, someone mowing their lawn across the street. As far as Bruce went, though? Not a peep. All you could do was watch him as he stared at you like you had suddenly sprouted a second head somewhere other than your womb. Over and over, his tongue darted across his lips. For what felt like five minutes, no sound came out of him.

“Bruce,” you finally said, pleading. Even that did not appear to crack his stupor. When you tried to let go of his hand, his fingers latched around yours tighter.

“No,” he whispered, the word falling from his lips. “No. That’s not possible.”

“Bruce.” You reached over to place your free hand on his thigh, but he released your other and got up, already moving toward the window. “Bruce, she doesn’t know for sure. She took some tests. They’ll call next week, and maybe it won’t be anything. It’s probably nothing. But it’s better that we know for sure, isn’t…”

It was clear that Bruce wasn’t listening. His entire body was one rigid, shaking line. The hand he had placed on the edge of the window was steady, but pressing so hard into the wood that you could see his knuckles go white all the way from the couch. What else could you say? What else could you _do_? You had expected him to be upset, but not to start _ignoring_ you.

As you had been taught, you held your tongue, held your breath, held every molecule within you motionless. There was nothing you could do but wait unless you wanted to provoke the Hulk into voicing his opinion on the subject, so wait you did, until a long breath issued from where Bruce stood and he turned toward you, hand to his face.

“I’ve killed you.”

As he lowered his hand, you realized with a jolt that his eyes were wet. You had made Bruce _cry_. Your heart fluttered inside your chest as you motioned for him to come join you again on the couch. He did not. “You haven’t, Bruce, I promise,” you said imploringly. Again, his gaze slid away from you. You could hear him sniffling. “Bruce…”

With a wild shake of his head, he finally wrenched his eyes up to meet yours. “There is a _monster_ growing inside of you. And it’s _my_ fault. You expect me to just…to just…” The shaking of Bruce’s head grew slower, and he began to move toward you again. Single step after single step led him toward you, but not quite _to_ you–because he collapsed just in front of your legs. His face pressed momentarily into your lap and he murmured something again and again: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.”

You had rarely seen Bruce so broken, and never because of you. Automatically, you lifted your fingers to work them into the soft curls of his hair, gently pulling them through it in an attempt to soothe him. Inside, your mind was whirring so loudly you could hardly hear his apologies. This was worse than you had expected. Tony hadn’t fallen to pieces when Pepper had told _him_ they were expecting. And _of course_ Bruce wasn’t Tony, not any more than you were Pepper, but here he was, crying into your thighs over something that might not even be a problem. Your robotic ministrations must have done the trick, though, because he lifted himself up a moment later to say:

“It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this.” He lifted one of his hands to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek, and you smiled tremulously and allowed yourself to think for one moment that things were going to turn out all right–until he had to go and add, “I’ll make an appointment at Planned Parenthood as soon as the results are in and we know for sure.”

_That_ threw you. “An appointment for what?”

“An appointment to get rid of the baby, [Name],” Bruce said, looking as confused as you felt. Your confusion did not fade with this answer.

“Why are we getting ready of our hypothetical baby?” you demanded. The anger that was normally Bruce’s luxury had begun to burn in your chest, and only burned brighter when he let out a short, near hysterical laugh.

“Well, you can’t _keep_ it,” he said, as though this were obvious. When you did not answer with anything more than a glare, his brows furrowed, and he took both of your hands in his. “[Name]. I will _not_ let you die because I got you pregnant.”

“It takes two to get pregnant, Bruce.” Your voice sounded surprisingly frosty. That was the best you could do, because inside, you were on fire. If this was what it felt like for Bruce to transform, you felt sorry for him, but if he was not careful, all the anger was going to spill out onto him, and then he’d have a whole new reason to blame himself for something that evening. You wrenched your hands from his grip. “ _I_ wanted to have sex with you, too.”

“If I hadn’t asked you–”

“I wouldn’t have got pregnant. So what? We can’t change the past.”

“It will tear you apart from the inside out.”

“It’s a _baby_ , not a death sentence!” Finally, you snapped, kicking out and drawing every one of your limbs away from the man on the floor. “You’ve never hurt me, and this baby isn’t going to hurt me either.”

Bruce had sat up and away from you, but he wasn’t backing down. “It won’t be able to control itself! I am not _growing_ inside you like some violent tumor. I will not have _my_ child murder my wife!”

“ _If_ I’m pregnant, it’s just as much my child as yours, and I’m keeping it!”

You hadn’t realized how heated the discussion had become until you heard your own voice bounce back to you from the walls. Oh, you felt hot all over, but you hadn’t noticed how much of that had really boiled over. Your breath rushed in and out of your chest in great bursts even in the eerie silence that followed. Bruce gaped at you, and you saw, just then, that he was _frightened_.

Too late. He had already got up and stalked away again. This time, he was trembling. From fear or anger, you couldn’t tell looking at his back. Of course Bruce was scared! You were scared, too. That was the whole point. Hoping to make amends, you started to stand, hand outstretched. “Bruce.”

“No!” he shouted. “Get away from me!”

All he’d had to do was say that first no. You froze, not even entirely off the couch. Your own limbs were quivering now, but you did as he said. No closer did you come. He did not turn back around either. Bruce just stood there, breathing, not bothering to so much as look at you over his shoulder. His name was on your lips, but he gave you no chance to utter it.

“I can’t–not now. It’s not _safe_. _Please_.” Without even waiting for your answer, he moved for his coat by the front door. He was pulling it on before you could even blink.

“Where are you going?” you asked, heart hammering in your ears. Bruce pulled the door open.

“To Tony’s,” he answered.

“For how long?”

His step paused on the welcome mat. Slowly, he looked back at you, licking his lips just one more time. “Until…” Both of you knew he couldn’t finish that sentence. Until you gave in to his demands? Until the threat was gone? Until _you_ were gone? At last, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

With that, he was gone. You fell back onto the couch soundlessly, and stared down at the shaking hands that had so recently been holding the warm, steady hands of your husband. There was nothing else to look at, nothing else to do. There you sat, as the sun climbed down the walls, as the room and your life grew dim. 


	4. Making Plans

The weeks following Bruce leaving your home could only be described as a living hell. Never in your entire life had you felt so miserable. For the first few days, a numbness fell over your body and mind, a kind of shell that kept you functioning in your day to day life. You didn’t think it would ever crack–not until exactly eight days later, when Dr. Warner called with the worst news yet: you _were_ pregnant, almost certainly so. A faint thank you for her congratulations left your lips before you hung up. Then you’d sat on the floor in the kitchen and bawled your eyes out.

You were too proud to tell him, or maybe too afraid. Not of Bruce, never of Bruce. But to start the whole argument up again via text would hurt too much. Over the next few weeks, nearly a month, you heard nothing from him. You had forgotten how completely he could erase himself from someone's life when he really wanted to. He was okay, though. That much you knew, because Tony would text you every so often to ask you what was going on between you and his buddy. But if Bruce wasn’t saying, neither were you. Fortunately, this was enough to placate Tony for a few days at least. Pepper was an entirely different story.

Well into your second month of pregnancy and all its wonderful symptoms, you found yourself blinking tearfully into a half-empty teacup in the Avengers Tower’s dining room. The overhead lights were on, and the occasional clip of chatter from the other residents would slip through the crack underneath the door. You had been doing your best to continue working, continue doing everything expected of you and still you felt dirty and dejected compared to prim and proper Pepper breastfeeding her eight-month-old daughter over having lunch with you.

“I can’t say I’m surprised that’s why Bruce has been living here for a while,” she said, expertly shifting Emma so Pepper could get a bite of her sandwich without disturbing the infant. 

Sniffling, you looked up from your cold dregs of tea. “He _told_ you?” _There_ was a sign you had barely spoken to anyone outside of work since the breakup if ever there was one. Your voice just then had been little more than a croak.

“No, but it’s something he would worry about. Would it be bad to say it’s a mother’s intuition?”

You did not crack a smile at Pepper’s attempt to lighten the mood. Laughter was a foreign concept to you; it seemed you had forgotten how to do it. It was pathetic, you falling to pieces over a guy, even Bruce–but deep down, you knew that your breakdown wasn’t just because of Bruce. She gave you a sympathetic look.

“He’s just been so happy since the two of you got married,” she said. “We figured it had to be _something_ like you getting pregnant. After the whole Natasha thing, everybody knows how Bruce feels about kids.”

“Now everybody will know for sure after the whole [Name] thing,” you murmured.

“That’s just silly. Of him,” she added quickly. “He can’t divorce you for getting pregnant. And he can’t keep avoiding you either.”

There was a familiar Pepper gleam in her eye that made you wish even more that you had not agreed to come. What did you think were playing at? You and Bruce were over. “No Pepper, it’s fine. I get it. He just–doesn’t want me to get hurt. Or to watch his child suffer like he did.”

“That’s still stupid. We aren’t living in a pre-superhuman world anymore. There are children being born every day with newer, stranger powers than going a little green when they get angry. I’m positive Tony would love Emma to be playmates with a miniature Hulk. And he’s not going to let the love Bruce’s life die giving birth to one either.”

Suddenly, you were blinking back tears. To hear even a few of the things you had been thinking alone in your house for so long put to words was strangely comforting. “Th-thank you,” you managed after a few seconds of rubbing at your wet eyes.

“And I mean that even if Bruce is an idiot and leaves. You have a place here. Tony and I will help you. We won’t leave you and your child to fend for yourselves.”

That, however, was a little _too_ much. You had a full-time job and a house in your name. No one under your roof would starve. It was just going to be a little…lonely, without your husband. “Thank you. Really. But I can’t ask you guys to do that. Bruce was your friend first, and he and Tony are so close.”

“I don’t care. Sisters before misters. I–ah.” Pepper broke off at a knock on the door. Emma made a soft noise of protest that her mother ignored. “Come in.”

“Pepper?” Bruce stepped in over the sound of the baby’s increased crying as Pepper started to bundle her up. “Tony said you needed to see me?”

“Yes, that’s right. I was hoping you could take over for me here. Emma’s starting to get fussy. I should get her down for a nap.”

“Sure. I–” But at that very moment, he had spotted you sitting on the opposite side of the table. His normally ruddy skin went chalk-white.

“Thank you,” said Pepper in her most falsely sugary voice. “And talk to your wife!”

She was gone, leaving you alone in the wide dining hall with the husband you hadn’t spoken to in four long weeks. “Bruce,” you said softly.

For a long time, he didn’t answer. When he did, it was nothing but a quiet return of your own name before he went back to staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights. He was frozen in a way that you had seen him go only when desperately trying to keep his green friend at bay. To think that you would be the cause of an attack broke your heart. And yet…

“You don’t have to talk to me.” You stood, arms shaking at your sides–but you weren’t scared. No, you were _angry_. Leaving before you did something you and Bruce both regretted was the best (and only) plan you had. Blindly, you headed for the doorway, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you dissolve into tears again. He didn’t let you get far past him.

“[Name],” he said, softer this time, his hands on your shoulders. If you wanted to go on, you could in theory, but Bruce was handling you so carefully that your knees had gone suddenly weak. You forced yourself to look up. This was a mistake.

“What?” you croaked, instead of kissing him like you wanted. His wide, brown eyes were so filled with worry. You wished you’d never agreed to have sex with him, never risked this situation happening to begin with. Then you’d be back home in your kitchen, cooking lunch together to music. But you _had_ agreed, and you _had_ risked it, and now here you two were: Stark Tower, an empty dining room, watching your shortly happy lives fall to pieces.

Bruce sighed, then slowly moved one hand from your shoulder, down your arm, and to your wrist. When his warm hand wrapped around yours to lead you to your recently vacated chair, what could you do but follow? By the time you collapsed into it again, you were sobbing too hard to notice him sitting down next to you until he started speaking.

“[Name]. Don’t cry. Please don’t. I-I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

That at least got you to stop crying long enough to level a glare at him. Bruce only offered you a tissue, which you took grudgingly. “What did you think I was going to do after all of that?” you demanded around the Kleenex.

“To be honest, I wasn’t thinking at all,” he answered. Much to your surprise, Bruce let out a quiet chuckle. Smiling. He was _smiling_!

“This isn’t funny.”

“No,” Bruce agreed, sobering up. “Just a little ridiculous.”

“Try a lot ridiculous.” You sighed, and a moment later blew your nose tremendously into your tissue. Somehow, you felt a little better. In some ways, your emotions were similar to Bruce’s: you’d hold things in and hold things in until everything inside you exploded at once. Normally you weren’t quite so bad, though. Maybe it was your hormones. One deep breath later, and you started to feel a bit more like yourself. “You don’t have to talk to me,” you repeated. “I didn’t come to force a confrontation. Just to have lunch with Pepper. It’s been a little empty at home lately.”

You could have kicked yourself for adding that last part. Bruce didn’t need manipulated. Fortunately, he took your words in stride. “No. We should talk. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.”

“Then why didn’t you call?”

“I was waiting for you to call me.”

“Me? You’re the one that just…just up and left.” Your voice broke, leaving you to end your sentence in whisper. Another long pause followed.

“I know,” Bruce said finally, sounding as though it cost him a great deal of effort, “and I’m sorry. That was stupid. I’ve been so stupid, [Name], and I know I shouldn’t even ask, but if you could give me a chance to prove how sorry I am, maybe–”

“What are you saying?” If you hadn’t interrupted, he would have carried on with his apologetic tirade indefinitely. Forced to stop, all he could do for a few more seconds was blink and wet his lips.

“I want to come home,” he said. “Will you forgive me?”

Nothing else could have made your heart jolt like that. Nothing else could have made you want to blurt out a ‘yes,’ more. You and Bruce had been through worse, and you badly wanted him home. And yet, you found yourself pressing a protective palm to your belly.

“ _Why_ do you want to come home?”

“It’s not to hurt you. Or your…” he seemed to struggle for a minute. “Or to hurt the baby.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. “What happened to Planned Parenthood?”

“I still think that would be the best option. We have no idea what sort of baby I will produce. We _do_ know that just my blood was enough to transform an adult woman. I don’t know what will happen with _more_ of my DNA in the mix. I can’t make you go,” he added at the look on your face, “but I helped you get into this mess. If I can’t get you out of it, then I’ll protect you through it. No matter what happens.”

“Even if I die?”

Bruce swallowed, eyes huge in his face. Gingerly, he took both your hands, Kleenex and all, in his. "Even if you die. I won’t let that happen, though. Tony and I will figure it out. Nothing is going to happen to you, [Name], I promise.” Seeming to realize he was babbling, he cut himself short before squeezing your hands. “Even if you die,” he whispered.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise. I’m the kid’s father, no matter what it winds up being. I’d better start acting like it.”

For a long moment–several moments, really–you just blinked at him in silence. You were already tearing up again. Bruce looked about to say something more, probably another apology, but he didn’t have the time. With an indistinct noise, you threw yourself out of your chair and into his lap, lips pressed impatiently to his and your fingers twisted into his hair.

“[Name]…” He laughed again, more genuinely, when you pulled away for air.

“I’ve missed you so much, Bruce. Come home. Please come home.”

“Right away. There’s a lot to do before the baby comes. We’ll have to get a nursery set up, and do our best to Hulk-proof the house. Pepper’s going to want to throw you a baby shower. And of course…”

As Bruce continued on with his laundry list of baby prepping, you smiled a watery smile. He really was going to be the best dad possible for your child. When your crying began anew, it had nothing to do with the fear and loneliness you had felt for so long, but rather a new feeling of hope and comfort. You hoped your baby would never go without the latter.  


	5. Starting to Show

After so long in a quiet house with no one but your unborn baby for company, any company at all was a welcome change of pace. Even several weeks later with Bruce back home, this remained true. You smiled to yourself as you stepped through the door after work one evening and were greeted by the distant rumbling of his and Tony’s voices on the floor above. It was good to have your husband back, even better that said husband had something to occupy his time.

Peeling off your coat revealed the smallest of baby bumps protruding from the space between your hips. It wasn’t much, but it _was_ proof that what you and Bruce had created together was growing–the only sign, in fact. You had agreed to be surprised by whatever the baby turned out to be, sex-wise. That decision turned out to be for the best. One visit to your new SHIELD-issued gynecologist (Pepper and Tony really _did_ have everyone on speed dial) proved that whatever the kid was, normal wasn’t it. The amniotic sac was opaque, leaving any hints as to the baby’s appearance or well-being a mystery.

But it wouldn’t be growing if it wasn’t healthy, right? Besides, Hulks were practically immortal. If anything was threatening the little guy (or gal), you were sure you would know, and so would everyone else. Whatever it was, it was safe here. Safe and happy.

Rubbing absently at your tiny something-or-other, you walked briskly to the kitchen to start preparing a meal. There turned out to be no need. A lasagna already sat cooking in the oven, courtesy of Bruce, you suspected. Whether or not he was going overboard trying to make up for abandoning you didn’t really matter; he was still coddling you every chance he got these days. It was a little embarrassing, but you weren’t about to stop him now.

You decided to wait the five remaining minutes for the lasagna to finish cooking before going to join the boys upstairs. Bruce was too wrapped in whatever it was they were working on up there to notice you were home, and it would probably be a nice surprise. Before the alarm could go off and alert him to your presence, you punched the off button, then made yourself busy cutting the pasta, preparing three plates, and pouring three glasses of ice water. All this you set on the tray you had, on occasion, used to bring Bruce breakfast in bed, and headed their direction.

“We’re gonna have to take the whole wall down,” Tony’s voice came drifting down to meet you.

“We’re not taking the wall down,” came Bruce’s reply.

“How else do you suggest we make everything tantrum proof?”

“I don’t know, Tony. But I have faith enough in your genius to know you can think of something other than blowing up my house.”

“It’s one wall, not your entire house. You know, or we could just scrap the whole project and you all could move in with me and Pepper.”

“We’re not moving into the Tower,” you announced as you walked into the tiny nursery, which was presently drenched red from the sunset beaming through the windows. “I would never see Bruce again. Dinner’s ready,” you added as you placed your tray on the unpainted nightstand. Both men eagerly moved in on it and took their plates.

“When did you get home?” Bruce asked, leaning over to peck you on the cheek. “You didn’t have to bring all this up here. You ought to be resting.”

“While you work? Honestly, Bruce, we’ll be fine.”

He looked fit to argue, but Tony unexpectedly came to your defense: “If she says she’s fine, she’s fine. Pregnant ladies are a lot more durable than you’d think. Pepper didn’t take a single day off during her pregnancy. Probably would have kept on working straight through labor if I’d let her.”

“Probably because she was afraid she’d kill you if she spent all that time with you.” Bruce hid a smile with his cup of water. Tony narrowed his eyes.

“Careful, Big Guy. I could still move your entire house inside my place in the dead of night without you noticing.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I’ll move your entire house inside my house!”

“No, Tony,” you and Bruce said in unison.

The answer was a distinctly un-Tonyish cry. A beat of confused silence followed, then Tony sighed and made his way to toward the back of the room. “Now you’ve done it,” he said, and bent to retrieve a squalling little girl from the playpen set up there. “She won’t go to sleep again until I’ve fed her.”

“But you can’t feed her lasagna,” you protested. Tony shot you one of his patented dirty looks.

“What kind of a father do you think I am?” Rocking Emma gently with one arm, he leaned over to dig around in his bag for a minute or so. Two baby food bottles were produced from within some deep inner-pocket; these Tony waved pointedly in your direction. “A stay-at-home dad always comes prepared.”

“You’re hardly a stay-at-home dad. You've got that whole school,” Bruce said, sitting on the floor to start on his dinner. You remained standing, leaning against the wall. 

“First off,” said Tony, “Avengers Tower is not a school. It’s a boarding home for wayward Inhuman youths with nowhere else to go. Secondly, it’s a charity, not a job. Lastly, and I can’t believe I’m having to explain this, no one in their right mind would actually put me in charge of it. I’m just there for the funding. All I’ve ever been good for.”

“Don’t say that. You’re good at lots of things,” said Bruce. “Like creating maniacal sentient robots and showing up Steve.”

“Thank you. So much.”

“And taking care of your daughter,” you added softly. Seeing Tony spoon-feeding Emma from her car seat perched on his and Bruce’s tool table made something in your heart ache. Bruce had lavished attention and adoration on you since his return, but he hardly ever spoke about the baby. You hadn’t even discussed names yet. Try as you might to convince yourself that was because you couldn’t even know for sure that what was growing in your womb was nameable, you couldn’t help fearing still that once it came, Bruce wouldn’t love it. Not like how Tony clearly cherished his daughter.

“Yeah, I’m doing a real great job right now,” he said above Emma’s screaming attempts to avoid having mashed peas stuffed in her mouth. Thank goodness there was tarp covering the wood floor, because a lot more of the stuff was on that than inside her stomach. Finally, Tony managed to pop the tiny spoon between her lips, and Emma fell silent for a few moments to suck on it. He shot Bruce a triumphant grin. “If I can do it, you can do it.”

Bruce didn’t look up; in fact, he became very focused on scrapping the last of the cheese off his plate. “I don’t know about that.”

You laid a hand on his shoulder, and that he _did_ look up at, squinting at you through the lenses of his adorable work glasses. “Tony’s right. You’re going to be a great father. Look at how much you’ve already done for them.”

Again, Bruce looked away. His empty plate was set down next to him on the floor just so he could take up his usual nervous habit of rubbing his palms together. “Preparing isn’t the same as being a dad,” he said, avoiding you and Tony’s gazes. “I just don’t know if–my dad wasn’t the greatest example.”

“Neither was mine,” Tony put in before you could fiercely remind Bruce that he was nothing like his brute of a father, and neither was the Hulk. “It’ll be different when the kid gets here. I was a wreck when Pepper told me, remember? I was so scared I would wind up being just like my old man, minus the weird Steve obsession, obviously. But as soon as I got to hold Emma in my arms, I knew I couldn’t be. Besides, you and I both have great wives to whip us back into shape when we need it.”

A soft smile spread across Bruce’s face. “That last bit’s true.”

“I love you, Bruce,” you said quietly. “You’ve never hurt me–”

“I left you for a _month_.”

“But you’re not going to do that again.” There was no arguing when you used that tone of voice. “I love you, and this little guy or girl is going to love you. You’re a wonderful husband, and I know you’re going to be a wonderful father, too. Better than Tony, even.”

“Debatable,” said Tony, but he grinned. “Seriously, Big Guy. It’s better than you think. Cheer up before [Name] decides to move to the Tower to get away from you. I don’t want to have to watch you mope like that anymore.”

“I would never–”

“I know,” Bruce said. Slowly, he took your hand and pulled you down for a brief kiss. “We’re doing this together. We’ll figure it out.”

“And you’ll always have me, and Tony Stark’s Avengers School for Gifted Youth,” Tony said, just as Emma started shrieking again.

“You can’t seriously be changing the name to that,” said Bruce.

“Of course not. I told you, no one will let me be in charge of those decisions.”

“I wonder why that is,” you murmured. Bruce caught your eye, and smiled sincerely. You beamed back. With friends and family like this, your little Hulkling was going to be the luckiest kid in the whole wide world.


	6. Lost

A huge, white moon hung above the Manhattan skyline only a few days after your powwow with Tony and Bruce in the nursery. Fall was swiftly turning into winter, but the chill in the air could not stop you from enjoying a quiet walk to the car with your husband. All you had to do was bundle up–coat, scarf, mittens, all–and you would be fine. Besides, you were having too good a time to feel the cold.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Your cheeks were actually starting to hurt from smiling so much. Who knew dinner out on the town with Bruce could be so grand? You had spent the entire meal discussing possible names for your child, and the subject continued even then as you made your way to your distantly parked car. “Nu-uh. No. _No_. We are _not_ naming our kid that.”

For once, Bruce seemed to be as happy as you were. You were already connected by one hand each, arms swaying beside you, but he neared to bump you affectionately with his shoulder as well. “I’m not kidding,” he said. “What’s wrong with Eugene?”

“It’s a nerd name!” you cried, following this with a peal of laughter that caused several surrounding pedestrians to stare at you.

He chuckled softly in response. “Are you calling me a nerd?”

“Bruce, you are the _biggest_ nerd I’ve ever met!” You pressed a smiling kiss to his cheek. “And I still married you, didn’t I?”

“But you don’t think anyone would marry Eugene Banner?”

“Ugh! _Fine_. We’ll consider Eugene. No promises, though.”

“Right. Just like we’ll _consider_ Janice for a girl.”

“It was my grandmother’s name!” But you were already giggling again, and Bruce along with you. You didn’t want the night to end, so you pulled him to a stop next to you. “I’ve had a really nice time tonight.”

“Me, too,” he said with a shy smile. It brought to mind your first date with him. He’d been so nervous and kind that you’d thought you could marry him right then and there, though it took Bruce another year and a half to pop the question. After grinning at each other like a couple of saps for a few seconds more, he led you on your way again. “Not going to get to do this sort of thing much in a few months, are we?”

“Not unless you want little Eugene driving everyone else in the restaurant crazy,” you said, shaking your head.

“We could get a sitter once he’s old enough.”

“Because every sitter’s dream job is a kid that could bring the house down on a whim.”

“Okay, good point. Maybe Tony, though? Bet he already has a whole floor of the tower redesigned to handle that. You know he hasn’t given up on our family moving in with his.”

“Tony and Pepper wouldn’t be bad,” you mused, “if they’re willing.”

“Trust me. He’d be willing. This is the same man that pays for us to have dates when he feels I haven’t met my monthly quota.”

“He won’t insist on that for a little while, will he? We’ll want to spend some time–”

“Yeah, that’s right. Nice and slow. No sudden movements there, grandpa, or else I’m liable to blast your face off.”

All of a sudden, Bruce shoved you behind him, no longer holding your hand. You had nearly reached the parking lot he had paid to use that evening; you could see your vehicle under a streetlight ahead. But you couldn’t get there just yet. There were two men blocking your path, one in a ski mask, the other an elderly gentleman shaking like a leaf. Somehow, you had stumbled into a mugging.

The man in the mask must have heard your abrupt stop, because no sooner had you registered his presence than did he whirl about. You cringed into Bruce’s shoulder. Maybe living in Manhattan should have mentally prepared you for such an event, but now that it was happening, you were honestly frightened. You could not have been in any danger, not with Bruce, and yet why did this have to happen _now_? The night had been going so well.

“Keep walking,” the mugger snarled, and you saw a glint of silver in his hand as he gestured at the street. Bruce didn’t move, except to slowly lift his hands into the air. “I said get moving! Nothing to see here.”

“How about,” said Bruce, in what you teasingly called his “therapist voice,” “you put that gun down before someone gets hurt?”

“How about you keep stepping, pops, before I have to do the hurting?”

“Trust me. You don’t want to do this.” For all the serenity in Bruce’s tone, you could feel how truly stiff he had gone. He wasn’t a fighter–that was, he didn’t like to fight. Leaving buildings leveled and bad guys greasy smears on the asphalt wasn’t something he took pleasure in. But he was also a good man, and you knew he wouldn’t leave a scared old person alone just to avoid a fight. Besides, if the mugger took a shot, Bruce wouldn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

The mugger stepped back, almost straight into his intended victim. “You don’t know what I want to do!” he shouted. His shaking hands lifted. Oh no. You squeezed your eyes shut just in time to hear a massive bang. Again, you flinched into your husband’s shoulders…but they were no longer human shoulders. They expanded beneath your hands. You stumbled backward and onto the cement just in time to see Bruce’s nice shirt rip to shreds as his entire back grew to gargantuan proportions.

Both mugger and victim could only stare in horror at the visage before them. Where a meek-looking man protecting his wife had once stood was now a green behemoth who took one look at them and began to beat his chest. The Hulk let out a roar so tremendous that the pavement beneath you shook. With one last expletive, the mugger tossed his gun aside and took off in the direction you had been headed when this all began. Unfortunately for him, the Hulk had decided not to take his crap and moved a lot faster than the average human being. Still snarling, he started his pursuit, leaving you alone with the old man and a handful of onlookers several blocks down.

“What in heaven’s name–” the man said tremulously. Crane his neck as he might, there was nothing left to see of the Hulk or the assailant now. The only sign what had just happened had really just happened was the sound of distant crashing. You hoped this wouldn’t be another night for Bruce to spend in jail. The police didn’t take kindly to his destroying entire blocks of the city to take care of one criminal most of the time. If Tony wasn’t in town to bail him out, it might take even longer to get Bruce home.

“That was just–my husband,” you said, wincing as you attempted to stand up after having toppled so far as to nearly bump your head against the ground earlier. “He’ll be fine.”

“I can tell,” he said, still eyeing the corner around which the two had disappeared as he walked to you. Once there, he stuck his hand out. “I appreciate the help. Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Fine, thank you.” Your heart-rate was starting to slow a bit, anyway. You would be able to get into the car once your legs stopped feeling like Jell-O, too, since you were the one with the car keys. In a few minutes, you’d see about calling Tony in to help search for Bruce. Gratefully, you took the man’s offered hand and allowed him to help you to your feet.

Then a tremendous pain shot across your abdomen.

You crumpled back to the cement with a wordless cry. Somewhere above, you heard the man shout “ma’am” again before he ran off . A few seconds later, you heard his voice from far away, shouting “sir, your wife, come back” repeatedly–presumably for Bruce. You needed Bruce. But you couldn’t hear him destroying things anymore; you couldn’t hear anything but the burbled sobs breaking out of you as you attempted to hold yourself together.

Something was wrong–horribly, terrible, awfully wrong–but you didn’t know what. Your entire lower half throbbed and throbbed and throbbed and throbbed. It felt like you had been torn open. You had never felt this sort of pain before. Bruce was coming, wasn’t he? You couldn’t continue as you were. You had to be strong for when he arrived.

A pair of hands came down to steady your thrashing head. The face that appeared shortly thereafter did not belong to Bruce. It did not even belong to the gentleman from before. It was another man entirely, younger, with a thin blond mustache, and beyond him you could vaguely see other people watching the show. “Miss, you have to calm down,” said the man. “You have to tell me what’s the matter. Calm down. Please calm down.”

All you did was shake your head. It hurt. Things were beginning to come together. You wanted to say that you were sorry, but you couldn’t get your lips to shape the words. You gasped through your tears. Just as you did, the man’s eyes traveled down your body–and he paled. “Good Lord, she’s _bleeding_. She’s bleeding. Someone call an ambulance!”

He disappeared from your field of vision. You took several deep breaths to try to calm yourself enough to stop moving. This was a vain attempt; your muscles continued to spasm without your telling them to. Everything made the pain worse: moving, breathing, pumping blood. Where was Bruce? Where was the Hulk, even?

“The ambulance is on its way,” said the man from before as he returned to your sight. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

You attempted to smile back. That was what you were always expected to do, right? Smile, so that your husband could smile. Surely he was there somewhere in the throng around you. This was the one time you couldn’t manage. “Bruce?” you whispered, but the man looking after you didn’t answer. Or maybe he did, a little too late. Before you could hear his response, your world went dark, still, and quiet, save for the sound of sirens coming your way.


	7. Hold My Hand

The sirens went on and on in your head, ebbing and surging along with the darkness you had fallen into. The deeper you went, the louder they climbed. You resurfaced into silence and light only a handful of times, and each time for only a handful of seconds. Images would flash across your vision–a blond man holding your hand in an ambulance, Bruce’s pale face above you as you were rushed down a hall, a mask pressing down over your nose and mouth–too fast to tell whether or not they were dreams before the pain sucked you back down again. But dreams weren’t supposed to be physically painful, were they?

The last one wasn’t, but maybe that was because that it was a memory: a sunny day at Avengers Tower. It wasn’t every day an IT technician got called in to help _Tony Stark_ , repeatedly, even. You could see the cute one, Bruce, determinedly ignoring you across the lab, and hear Tony speaking to him in a low voice, “Hey, Bruce, quit hiding and come here. Want you to meet somebody. Been helping us out lately, doing great work. Think you’re really gonna like her...”

The warm memory faded away as Bruce’s brown eyes met yours. This time, however, it faded into…nothing. No siren, no vision, no anything. You had returned to yourself, and the first thing you did was mentally prepare for a wave of a pain that did not come. Your lower body hurt, but not as badly as it had the last time you had attained consciousness. The ringing in your ears had left entirely. Still, you were not quite ready to stay conscious, not with the stinging smell of cleaning solution crawling up your nostrils into your brain, and an irritating prickling in your wrist.

Despite your desire to remain ignorant just a little longer, your eyelids lifted in slow, steady increments. You found exactly what you expected to beyond them: a hospital room. Its wide, blank walls and the bag of fluid dripping medicine directly into your veins did not surprise you. The two figures in the uncomfortable-looking chairs nearby did–or at least, the figures’ appearances did.

One was Bruce, of course. You had never seen him look worse in all your years of knowing him. He looked so small, bent over asleep like that. Shadows so deep they were nearly black bloomed beneath his closed eyes. His feet were shoved into slippers you did not recognize. In fact, the only thing he was wearing that you did recognize were his pants: the same ones he’d worn on your dinner date, now tattered beyond repair. The shirt he wore didn’t at all match his usual style, and was clearly made for someone thinner in the shoulders. You thought you had a good idea where this outfit had come from, though, because you had one other, more bizarre guest sitting with you.

Tony Stark was asleep and snoring quietly in the chair next to your husband. Wherever he had come from, he had come in a hurry. He was wearing most of a tuxedo, missing only the jacket. Honestly, Tony might have looked put-together, if he hadn’t also had a loose bow tie hanging around his neck and what was obviously dried baby vomit all over one shoulder.

Observing all this only served to delay the inevitable. You did not want to think about why you were where you were. You did not want to think about the dull pain radiating from your lower abdomen. You did not want to think about just how long Bruce had been waiting there to look like that. All were too difficult to process at the moment. Your brain was full of pain medication fuzz, and you preferred it to remain so, instead of letting it fill with unpleasant ideas. Unfortunately for you, Tony did not serve well as a distraction while he was sleeping. If you woke him up, you’d wake up Bruce.

A decision had to be made: Either sit alone and stew in silence, or wake the men and risk their bringing up what you dreaded to hear. The more you thought about it, the better going back to sleep sounded. Perhaps you could avoid more painful dreams. You could sleep the rest of your life away and never, ever have to deal with your more painful reality. No sooner had you reached this conclusion then did a body close to you stir.

Bruce shifted in his seat, blinking blearily as he rubbed at his tired eyes with one fist. Startled and scared, you did not think to feign sleep until it was too late. He looked up with a yawn and froze with his mouth still half open. There was a pause before either of you dared to speak.

“You’re awake,” he finally rasped. Well, you couldn’t try to fool him now, could you? You smiled your answer. “How long have you been up?”

Trust Bruce to force you to use your voice. “Not long. What’s Tony doing here?”

“Oh. He came to bring me clothes so they wouldn’t kick me out.” At least for the time being, Bruce seemed content to let you stall. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, clearly as confused as you were by his getup. “Pepper left to take Emma home and find him something clean to wear. She’ll be back soon.”

“She should stay home,” you said, “with her baby.”

You hadn’t really meant anything by it, you didn’t think. Why keep a mother and her child in a hospital to do nothing but stare at you? All the same, Bruce turned his soft gaze from Tony to you, and, quicker than you could protest, pulled his chair up right beside your bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, reaching forward to grasp your hand resting on top of the sheets, the hand stuck all over with little wires. A hard wad of tears worked its way up your throat. Your attempts to swallow it back down did very little. Your voice still came out thick when you said:

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I should probably go find a doctor, now that you’re awake. Just wait right h–”

“No!”

If your tone of voice did not betray your desperation, than your sudden iron grip on his hand should have. Bruce barely made it out of his chair before you pulled him back down. When he looked at you again, you couldn’t tell what he felt more: fear, or pity.

“[Name]…”

It took you a few seconds to compose yourself. Still clutching at his hand like a lifeline– _don’t leave again,_ please _don’t leave again_ –you closed your eyes and concentrated on breathing.

“What happened?” you asked a few minutes later. Though he did not let go of you, Bruce did lean back and away. Quite possibly this was the worst thing he could have done while you were in your present state, but you knew that the news you were about to hear might somehow be even worse than that.

“I don’t know if–”

“Bruce.”

He hesitated, then: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

Shaking his head, Bruce shifted forward again to get a better grip on your fingers. “I don’t know,” he said again. “I wasn’t there. I was chasing that–” He choked off into a guttural growl. The look of rage that flashed across his face had your stomach dropping, and _only_ that sensation. No pain followed. That was worse; your heartbeat kicked up a notch. Bruce continued, “By the time I finished, the ambulance had already taken you away. I had to call a cab. They were–wheeling you into surgery when I arrived."

You could see it in your mind’s eye: Bruce, exhausted and small and sad, stumbling down the street back to where he had parked the car hours before. He would have found nothing. No crowd, no old man, no you, just an unlit patch of sidewalk, and your vehicle still there waiting. What had he thought of your sudden disappearance?

“How did you find me?” you asked.

“Tony.”

“Ah.”

You both looked over at him. For once oblivious to being the subject of a conversation, he snoozed on. Whether having an opportunity to rest without a screaming baby just around the corner had anything to do with his nap, you couldn’t say. The thought did force the real subject of conversation to the front of your mind. A deep breath didn’t really steady you this time, but it was all you could do to try.

“What next?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You went into surgery. You came out. I’ve been waiting here ever since.”

What you said next was probably the hardest thing you had ever said: “No. What happened to the _baby_?”

Though he must have known the question was coming, Bruce froze. His gentle eyes roved around your face as though he were gauging how ready you were to hear the news. He knew just as well as you did that delaying wouldn’t help. All that mattered was that _he_ was ready–and he _had_ to be.

“He…” A deep breath of his own. “He didn’t make it.”

It hurt even though you’d known. Your body felt hollow and flat, and you could remember the pain and the blood. You could not have convinced yourself that the baby was fine. Finding out for sure still hurt. Pressing your lips together to keep in your sobs was the only thing you were capable of doing for a while.

“He?” you whispered.

“He,” Bruce echoed.

Thank goodness Bruce was still holding your hand. The whole hospital room seemed to fall away, and you were floating in a void. It felt like your skin had turned into a numb, brittle shell barely capable of containing the swirling vortex of emotions inside. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to cry. You just couldn’t get your body to do it. All it _would_ do, apparently, was start to hiccup–hiccup and alarm Bruce.

“I don’t–I don’t–but–what _happened_?” you asked in between your sad attempts to contain your hiccups and gasps. How Tony continued to sleep through your noise, you had no idea. Surely your seams coming apart were loud enough for him to hear, too. And poor Bruce just sat there, brushing his thumb across the top of your hand, like everything was going to be okay.

Like you and Bruce were going to be okay.

“I can’t be sure, [Name]. I guess he was aware enough to understand you and he were in danger, and he…transformed.”

“I-Inside me?”

“He didn’t…stay inside, from what I understand.”

Another choked sob. “But Hulks are-are _immortal_ ,” you insisted, as though everything would be all right if this was true and Bruce was only playing some cruel joke on you. It wouldn’t. That didn’t stop your wishing.

“Adult Hulks are,” said Bruce, not unkindly, still stroking your hand, “but ours was just too young to be out of the womb. He–he couldn’t survive, [Name]. He was still…still transformed when he died. He probably didn’t feel any pain.”

“You…saw him?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, his voice only just loud enough to hear. “They let me hold him for a minute, before they took him away.”

“Eugene…” Your baby, your little boy, cold and still and alone under a sheet on a metal tray down in the bowels of a hospital, never knowing his own mother’s arms. Try as you might, you simply couldn’t hold everything in any longer. Your entire body lurched up and down with each stifled sob. “I’m sorry!” you burst out. Bruce’s eyes widened with shock, but you went on before he could say anything. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.”

Now he really was alarmed. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

But there was. He knew and you knew. _You_ had wanted the baby, _you_ had known the danger, _you_ had decided to keep him, and, worst of all, _you_ had killed him. Your fear had forced him to act and now he was gone. The words just wouldn’t come. All that did was a cry so loud that it hurt your throat tearing out of it. A half-second later, you ripped your hand out of Bruce’s to bury your face into both of yours. Even that did nothing to quiet the inhuman sounds issuing from your mouth.

_That_ Tony couldn’t sleep through. He awoke mid-snore with a start. “’m not asleep. Just resting my eyes! Where–” Then he caught sight of you. How mortifying to break down like that in front of Tony Stark. You just couldn’t stop. Not even Bruce ever so carefully stroking the top of your head couldn’t quiet you. Tony’s eyes drifted away before he stood up. He patted Bruce just once on the back and muttered, “Gonna go grab a coffee. Make a call to Pep. You let me know if either of you need anything.”

Bruce mumbled something, something that sounded like, “will do.” Tony left. There was only one thing you needed, though, and that one thing even Tony Stark couldn’t get you. He would have if he could have, though, for Bruce. You knew that. Meanwhile, you couldn’t even get Bruce some sleep. You continued to bawl into his shoulder, heedless of his soft touches and quiet words, for what felt like hours, until finally a nurse came in to send you back to darkness. 


	8. Early Morning

Bruce took you home, eventually. You couldn’t say how long you’d been in the hospital, or how long you’d been out. It was as though whatever tethered you to the present had been cut, leaving you floating aimlessly through time. All you could remember were fleeting moments: waking up to Laura Barton sitting with you while Clint helped Bruce and Tony find a quiet grave site; listening to Tony and Pepper and Bruce hold whispered conferences when they thought you were asleep; and the funeral: short, closed casket, attended by only your and Bruce’s closest friends. Throughout all this pervaded some gaping, painful hollowness inside you that no medication seemed capable of numbing.

It was this gaping, painful hollowness that kept you sleeping during the day and thinking all through the night. Which night? You didn’t know. How long ago had you watched your son be buried in the ground? Years ago, or maybe hours. A parade of visitors came through to ask about your hollowness, but you had learned at some point that mention of it only caused Bruce more pain himself. Better for you to sleep and ignore it, and if you were asleep, no one could wake you up to ask questions that hurt.

Bruce’s snoring next to you was the only sign that it was night. You kept the curtains closed no matter what the hour, and he had not yet forced you to stop this habit. The warmth of his body pressed against your back should have been a comfort to you. _Should_ have. After several hours of staring into the empty darkness in front of you, you couldn’t bear to stay in bed a minute longer. Bruce was _too_ close, too loud, too warm. You could not forget that he was still with you when he was _there_ like that. As your husband let out a particularly loud snort, you slid out of bed. No time to press your bare feet to the cold ground and wait for them to warm up. Before you could risk waking Bruce, you headed for the door and stepped painfully and ungracefully into the hallway.

You immediately regretted leaving the safety of your bed. You always did. Every morning, when being with Bruce had twisted all of your insides into knots, you escaped to the rest of the house. Every morning, that house seemed too vacant and too big for you to process. Like a clumsy ghost, you drifted down the hall, only to stop as usual at the top of the stairs. People had come to see Bruce that afternoon; you could recall their hushed voices carrying up to you. The refrigerator was probably stuffed to bursting with casseroles dropped off by well-meaning friends and family members. Briefly, you tried to recall the last time you had eaten, but when the answer did not immediately present itself, you gave up. The kitchen was not your destination anyway.

Though you never set out with a particular destination in mind, your feet always guided you to the same place. As your thoughts drifted hazily from one vague image to another, your body continued until you found yourself in the doorway of the nursery.

There you stopped, as though you were listening for something. Breathing, perhaps, or wailing. No sounds ever issued from the crib standing in the corner. Nothing ever moved. The yellow walls stayed dark. When at last you convinced yourself that the place was as empty as it always had been, you shuffled over to the rocking chair that sat unused by the untouched changing table. Even though you knew Bruce was fast asleep in a different room, you lowered yourself carefully into the chair, lest something knock and give your whereabouts away. Darkness didn’t make the idea of talking any more appealing than daylight did.

No one appeared to demand answers from you, so you felt safe enough to rock. The chair moved gently back and forth beneath you. Your thoughts were not quite so kind. Eugene should have been what roused you from your sleep. You should have been rocking him to asleep, or feeding him, or changing him, or arguing with Bruce over whose turn it was to leave the warm bed to check on your son. But your son wasn’t there. He’d never seen his nursery, or your face, and he never would. Whatever was wrong with you, you couldn’t even convince yourself that a child lay sleeping in that crib.

What sort of boy would Eugene have been? Just like his father, you wagered, and not just in the obvious, not just in the way shown during his short life. You could imagine driving your son to science fairs, walking in on Eugene and Bruce working on equations in the kitchen at all hours of the night, making him huge bowls of soup after he hulked out so that he wouldn't feel so drained. Bruce would worry over him, of course. Try to keep him from leaving the house, teach him meditation techniques to calm him down. Together you would have cobbled together the perfect family for Eugene, the family that Bruce had always deserved. But now he would never get it. You had ruined his only chance.

“[Name]?”

Speak of the Devil. The sudden voice ought to have startled you, but it did not so much as slow the pace of your thinking. Slowly, you turned your face to see Bruce, wearing nothing but his boxers, standing in the doorway. His eyes were thick with sleep. Something inside you said you ought to say something, and yet no words came. For some reason, Bruce thought this gave him permission to intrude.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked. Something like that really did require an answer. All you could do, however, was shrug. “You’re crying,” Bruce said when he drew closer.

Were you? Absently, you lifted a hand and touched your cheek. When you pulled your fingers, away you saw rather than felt that they were wet. When had you started that? There was nothing to cry over. Tears could change nothing. You didn’t even feel sad. You just felt _nothing_ , even when Bruce made to kneel on the ground beside your chair.

“[Name], you’re—you’re…” You glanced at him just in time to see him swallow. “You’re _worrying_ me.”

Unfortunately for Bruce, you knew what word he had swallowed down: afraid. Afraid like he had been that night of your last date. Afraid like he had been for his family when that gun went off. Afraid like Eugene had been for those few fast seconds of his life. Poor Bruce; he thought you blamed him. But it wasn’t _Bruce’s_ fault that Eugene was gone. It was yours. He had been right; you never should have risked the pregnancy. Bruce had been good enough to want Eugene to die peacefully. No one would have suffered, if you hadn’t been so selfish.

You felt a pressure on your hand and turned again. Apparently, Bruce was still there. If he had said what time it was, you’d already forgotten, but he looked wide awake now regardless. “Please, [Name],” he said, his voice cracking. “We already lost our son. Don’t make me lose you, too.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. The hoarseness in your voice made you frown for a second. Then it was over. You were never going to talk to anyone again, so what did it matter?

“That’s part of the problem,” Bruce protested. “You haven't gone anywhere in _two months_.”

Had it been that long? The effort of wracking your brain for any passage of time seemed too great, so you didn’t bother. Surely Bruce was wrong, anyway. The funeral had only been a couple of days ago. You could find no evidence of as much time passing as he claimed. He held up his hands.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be mourning him. I— _I’m_ still mourning him. It would just be nice if we could mourn _together_.”

“I’m not mourning. There's nothing wrong.” It was an automatic response, meant to soothe whomever you were speaking to. Nothing was wrong. No one needed to worry about you. You did not deserve to be worried over, murderous monster that you were. Natasha and Bruce had broken up because she thought _she_ was disgusting? She had never stubbornly resisted saving a child. If Bruce had stayed with her, this never would have happened.

You hardly felt the tautness in your face, nor the tears now obscuring your vision. The only thing that told you that your statement was not being taken as fact was the faint furrowing of Bruce’s brow.

“Okay, [Name],” he said. “Okay.”

A sudden, strong urge to bury your face in your hands shot though you. For the first time in a long time—two months? Is that what Bruce had said?—you felt something: shame. _Of course_ you were not okay. You did not spend your days curled up in bed; you did not refuse any and all food offered to you; you did not avoid seeing your friends and family just because they might try to talk to you. Bruce knew that. He _loved_ you. Throughout this entire ordeal, he had been nothing but kind and understanding and gentle. You could stand it no longer. If he had raged or cried or even left you, that would have been so much easier. Why couldn’t he _see_ that?

As though years of marriage allowed him to sense the chink in your armor, he touched your arm. It took all your self-control to not rip it away from him, and still you flinched. “Listen,” Bruce said, not unkindly. Your insides twisted painfully. You wouldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Bruce swallowed audibly, and then plowed right on, “I talked to Tony and Pepper today.”

Your head turned slowly in Bruce’s direction. Inside your chest, your heart felt like some dead thing, like an unmoving stone. Nothing came out of your mouth. His eyes locked on yours. He took a deep breath and continued:

“They gave me the number to Tony’s old therapist.”

This was just what you had been dreading. You wrenched your arm out of Bruce’s light grip with a snarled, “No.”

You thought (or hoped, though hope now felt like a foreign concept) this would get rid of him. Instead, Bruce moved so that he was kneeling in front of you, rather than to the side. “Tony had PTSD after the attack on New York,” he said. “He tried talking to _me_ , but I’m not that kind of doctor. He needed real help, and he got it. Dr. Robinson comes highly recommended by both Tony and Pepper.”

As though Pepper’s recommendation would convince you. “I said no,” you answered, voice tight.

Bruce didn't let go. “If you can’t talk to me, that’s okay. I get it. I wouldn’t talk to me either, if I were in your shoes. If I hadn’t—” he stopped himself to take another several deep breaths. “You should talk to someone, [Name]. Dr. Robinson can help you. _Please_ , [Name]—”

“I said no!” As you shouted, you stood, forcing Bruce clumsily to his feet. Your heart sprung to life again. Now it beat at a pace that Bruce’s would never be allowed, and that wasn’t fair, but you didn’t care. You didn’t _care_ about what was fair and what was not, what Bruce felt and what he didn’t, what you should have been doing and what you shouldn’t have been. You had _earned_ your hollowness, and you were going to _keep_ it. Nothing that Bruce, Tony, or Pepper could say would change your mind.

Unfortunately, Bruce seemed determined to try. “I will beg if I have to,” he said. “I’ll do anything. You don’t have to see me again, if that’s what you want. I’ll leave. Disappear. Just—”

“ _No_!” The word came out so loud and long that when you came back to yourself, you were panting. When was the last time you had exerted that kind of energy on anything? He still stood before you, but he looked like he couldn’t quite believe a noise like that had come out of his wife. You jumped on this moment of weakness. “I won’t talk to anyone. I don’t want to. All I want is to be left alone!” Your voice lifted again at the end, and it was Bruce’s turn to flinch.

He recovered quickly, though. Again he stared at you, and again you caught that look in his eyes, like he wasn't able to recognize you. Maybe he couldn’t. Whenever you had to look in a mirror those days, you couldn’t recognize the woman looking back at you either. How long you and Bruce just stood there, watching each other from opposite ends of what should have been a nursery, you did not know—but that was no surprise. Eventually, he blinked. Then he nodded once and made his way for the door. He paused there to turn back to you.

“If…that’s what you want,” he said.

You said nothing. He pressed his lips together, then trundled into the hallway. Until you heard the bedroom door close rather hard behind him, you didn’t move. Once Bruce (or the Hulk) was out of sight, he was out of your mind. Your entire body continued to quiver as you sank back into the rocking chair. The westward-facing windows remained dark. There was no way for you to tell if sunrise was coming. Wordless, motionless, you watched the unchanging black sky. Alone, like you always should have been.


	9. Where Do We Go From Here?

It was birdsong that brought you back to life. You awoke as though coming out of dark water. One minute, everything around you was cold and black. Then a strange warmth took hold of your feet and climbed, inch by slow inch, all the way up to the top of your head. A deep breath in preceded your eyes fluttering open. A cool breeze stirred the simple curtains to your right, and along with that drifted inside the chirping and the smell of rain. Blearily, you sat up and looked around. Doing so hurt. Every muscle in your body felt stiff, like it had been forced to run a marathon after a month without moving.

Hold on. A month?

Ignoring the pain, you crawled out of the bed to walk to the window. Outside shone a watery sun in a halo of palest blue. The bushes in the backyard burst with tiny clumps of flowers. It was spring. That couldn’t be right, though. You recalled it being autumn last: dying leaves and Halloween decorations, plans to spend Thanksgiving with the Starks. Springs was weeks away, if not months.

“Bruce?” you called. Your voice sounded thin and reedy. No one replied. Turning back toward the bed, you tried again, “Bruce?”

Bruce wasn’t there. His half of the bed was empty and perfectly made. It looked as though he hadn’t slept in it at all. Had Tony called him in on something during the night? You shuffled to your bedside table to check your phone, but that, too, was missing. What was _not_ was the bathroom mirror.

“Oh my!”

The banshee in the reflection pressed her hands to her mouth just as you did. There was no avoiding it: that fleshy skeleton in the mirror was _you_. It _was_ spring. And if both of those things were true, then…

With trembling fingers, you pulled up the top of your pajamas. Across your abdomen stretched an ugly, vivid scar. You closed your eyes and rubbed your palm down it. It was real. Faint words drifted from the foggy recesses of your mind, _"Lucky he didn’t come out the back. It’ll be a miracle if she can walk again.”_ With those words, everything else flooded back: Eugene, Bruce, your time away.

A sudden surge of heat and anxiety raced from your feet to your head. Bruce! Had he left? He had every right to. Even then, you wanted nothing more than to shamble back into bed and sleep your life away. Doing so would hurt less, and yet…you had to know. Pain be damned, you left the bedroom.

Unsteady feet took you down the hall. An empty room sat at the end of it, but your chest contracted at the thought of entering it. The door was closed; surely no one was in there anyway. But where was Bruce if not there? Surely he had not left you _alone_ like that. _Someone_ had to be there with you—Pepper or Laura or a nurse or _someone_.

“[Name]?”

A familiar voice froze you where you stood at the top of the stairs. Just below you was the kitchen, warm with the glow of the strengthening sun. Inside it stood your husband, barefoot, bare-chested, and squinting at you as though you were the brightest thing he’d seen in his entire life. A silence that felt like an eternity stretched between you. Then Bruce took a step past the little square table, and said, “Hi,” in a voice that sent shivers up your sore spine.

You latched your hand like a vice around the banister to prevent yourself from running away—for a given definition of “run.” Perhaps Bruce noticed that, because he went still. He remained _with_ you, though. Unless you’d started hallucinating on top of everything else. A single, hesitant step took your closer. _‘Say something!’_ you screamed mentally, but it took so long for your words to reach your mouth that all that came out was a raspy, “hello.”

Bruce smiled. “You’re up.”

That time, you managed _two_ steps _and_ clearing your throat. “Looks like it.”

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you want breakfast?”

You considered the question as you clumsily navigated the rest of the way to the kitchen. Hunger was something you had not thought about in a very long time. Food could be joy, and joy you did not deserve to partake in. The hollowness in your stomach felt more like emptiness than dead weight that morning. Could _that_ be hunger?

“I…guess so,” you said, stopping an arm’s length away from Bruce.

He beamed. “I made waffles,” he said, and pulled out a kitchen chair that had a plate of waffles and other breakfast foods in front of it. You shrank away.

“That’s _your_ breakfast.”

“I can make more easily. Please eat something, [Name]. Please.”

His eagerness made it impossible for you to refuse. You sat in the offered chair, which Bruce then pushed in. Still grinning, he busied himself back at the waffle maker. He had extra butter at the table, you noted. Had your presence been expected, or merely hoped for?

“What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Eat. You need your strength.”

More to get him to quit looking at you than any sort of desire to do so, you took a bite. The sweet flavor of maple syrup spread heavily across your tongue. So strong was it that you had to close your eyes to avoid tearing up.

“Is it okay?”

When you opened your eyes again, Bruce was at the table setting down a plate of his own. The corners of your mouth twitched.

“It’s amazing.”

“It can’t be _that_ good.”

“It is! It’s the most delicious thing I’ve had in ages.”

His smile faded. Warm brown eyes roved slowly across your face before settling back on the plate before them. “How are you feeling?”

You had thought that it might come to a question like that. Your fingers wrapped momentarily tighter around the handle of your fork. The metal pressing into your skin brought you back to reality soon after, and with that came the realization that you couldn’t lie to him. Not anymore.

“I’m…a little confused,” you said.

“About what?”

“Where I am.” You caught a flash of worry in his eyes and added, “I know this is our house, and who you are, and who I am. I just don’t remember how I got here, to this table this morning. The last thing I remember is yelling at you in the—the nursery.” The memory floated back to you as you spoke, and your voice grew hushed. What cruel things you had said. What cruel things you had done.

“Dr. Robinson said that might happen. You’ve been through a traumatic experience. Your mind might not be ready for you to process it all just yet.”

A little shudder ran its way up your back. To think there might be worse waiting for you in the dark, cobwebbed corners of your mind was not comforting. Neither was the thought that you’d lost a whole six months of your life until you were ready to cope with that time. It was nothing short of miracle that you had said _nursery_ without dissolving again. “Dr. Robinson? I’m going to therapy?”

Bruce nodded. “Physical and emotional. Have been for a few months now.”

If you tried hard enough, you could see flashes of warm rooms, of Bruce holding your hand while you spoke to a younger man behind a desk, of dragging yourself across the same hurdles Bruce’s friend Colonel Rhodes had. The images were like silent movies: mouths moved, but no sound accompanied them. Whatever you were saying and whatever was said to you remained a mystery. “And I’m doing better?” you asked.

“Today you are,” said Bruce.

You swallowed roughly, then gulped down much of the coffee he had left for you. That flavor threatened to overwhelm you as well, but you forced yourself to drink until your throat felt less clogged with tears. If you were doing better, then you were determined not to ruin the moment by crying. The sun was out, you could walk, and Bruce was eating breakfast with you. What more could you ask for? So to avoid figuring something out, you shoved another chunk of waffle into your mouth. For a few minutes, nothing more sounded off in your kitchen except for the forks and knives against the plates. Only when you’d finished your food did Bruce try again:

“I missed you.”

You swallowed. “I missed you, too. My head’s been a pretty scary place.”

“I know the feeling.”

Though Bruce had said the words with a smile, his expression swiftly faded at the look on your face. Your throat contracted at the same time that your hands squeezed around the coffee mug you’d reached for. Bruce _did_ know the feeling, and he’d loved you through it just the same as you’d usually loved him through his anxiety and full-fledged Hulk-outs. It took some effort, but eventually you were able to force yourself to unwind. You were not the only one that had lost a child.

“Yeah,” you said, a little unsteadily, “I know you do.”

For a long minute, all he did was look at you, as though he were hungry just to _see_ you. The idea of that twisted up your insides. All you were now was greasy, uncut hair, and bones pressing against your skin in all the wrong places. You had not taken care of yourself. Still you tried not to duck your head or otherwise hide from him. That much you owed Bruce.

Feeling suddenly shy, you decided to focus your attention on your empty plate. The very first bite had had your head spinning. When was the last time you’d tasted something so sweet? Obviously Bruce had ensured you’d eaten during your time away, or else you would not have been alive to eat breakfast with him that morning. You couldn’t remember eating for a long, long time, though.

Before you could prevent it, hot tears sprang to your eyes. Bruce’s hand found your shoulder at once. You shook your head wildly, sniffing and snuffling to get yourself to stop. “I-I’m sorry,” you hiccuped. The hand on your shoulder squeezed, then vanished to move straight to the hand you had resting on the table.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bruce said.

You shook your head a second time. “I _have_ to be. I’ve been s-s-so awful.”

“You are _not_ awful.”

“I _am_. You dealt with everything alone, and now I’m having a breakdown over _waffles_!”

“You’re sure it’s over the waffles?”

You whipped your wide-eyed gaze toward him. “What else would it be?”

Sighing, Bruce slid his hands back into his lap and looked at them. “You got so hurt because of me.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, tears forgotten in your confusion.

“If you had not had a child with me, you’d still be okay. The child would have lived. All of this happened because I’m a monster.”

“Robert Bruce Banner, don’t you dare!” you said. The flash of anger felt good, almost warming. Bruce had no answer for it either, perhaps because it had been so long since he'd heard any emotion from you at all. “ _You_ were the one that suggested I have an abortion. I should have listened, I wanted a family with you. Eugene died because of _me_. You and everyone else wasted time taking care of me because I’m the monster you and Eugene never could be.”

Your voice rang against the walls for a few seconds after your tirade. Both of you sat to listen to it. After the echoes faded at last and your anger began to cool, Bruce took your hand again. He rubbed his work-worn thumb against the top of your knuckles. “Everyone who has helped you has helped you because they love you. No one thinks you’re a monster.”

“They’re wrong.”

“They aren’t. It wasn’t just you, [Name]. I’m to blame as well. If I hadn’t decided we ought to have sex—”

“I _liked_ the sex,” you interrupted.

His smile was weary. “I did, too. And you know what else we have in common? I wanted a family as well. I’ve always wanted a family. I wanted one so badly that I ignored the risks. I convinced myself that you and Eugene would be all right.”

A few tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes in the aftermath of his confession. With your free hand, you reached over to dry them off. Hoarsely, you said, “I can’t have kids anymore, Bruce.”

“I know, but,” he licked his lips, hesitating on what looked to be a precipice before he took the leap, “I’ve been thinking. If you want kids and I want kids…there’s no saying we have to have them ourselves for them to count. Maybe—Maybe we can adopt.”

That was a thought. A very big, very scary thought. It was not a thought that you immediately wanted to reject, however. Bruce would be a fantastic father. Everything in his life leading up to the conversation had proven that, especially his taking care of you while you were too mentally fogged to do so yourself. You had the room in the house and in your heart. “I think I’d like that,” you whispered.

“We’ll talk about it some more later. We don’t have to rush anything. I think we both need some time to heal.”

After a pause, you nodded, dragged your chair closer to Bruce’s, and leaned your head against his shoulder. “Together now?” you asked him.

“Together from now on,” he promised, and kissed the top of your head.

**THE END**


End file.
